Connor's Legacy Pt 3 Ulterior Motives
by avatar5005
Summary: Methos' saga of his friendship with Connor concludes


                _Well, here it is-the final act of Methos' dealings with Connor MacLeod.  I plied him with beer to get him to finish it.  He calls it Connor's Ulterior Motive.  It was fun while it lasted, which is why I do it?  Not for fame or fortune, writing just keeps me sane.  Remember feedback truly feeds my soul.  Enjoy._

* * * * * * *

It's difficult for an Immortal to sleep with the 'buzz' of two other Immortals thrumming through your head like dive bombing mosquitoes.  Duncan and Megan are whispering over coffee, conspiring to deprive me of the rest of my much needed much loved slumber.  Groaning, I reach down for my jeans, wiggling into them under the blankets, run a hand through my hair and stumble towards the coffee.

            "Still not a morning person," Megan quipped, "I made the coffee.  Don't worry, it's strong enough.  The spoon didn't fall over after I stirred cream into mine."

            "God, how can anyone be that perky and annoying this early in the morning?" I reach for bacon, eggs and toast, "you're both awfully chummy this morning, did I miss something?"

            "Just my confession," Duncan looked me in the eye, "the one where I admit taking Connor's head."

            "Ah yes, confession 2-A," grimacing as I ease my five thousand year old bones onto a stool, "well, Megan--is honesty still the best policy?  Have you forgiven him for his sins, both real and imagined?  You really do know how to hold a grudge."

            "Only where you're concerned," she reminds me, "Duncan had no choice, and it was either kill or be killed.  You had a choice---"

            "Oh, so killing your longtime friend pales in comparison to my leaving you," I throw up my hands, "As long as I live, I'll never figure women out."

            "That's a scary thought," MacLeod jokes, "if _you_ can't figure women out, then there's no hope for the rest of us."

            "So did I fulfill Connor's last wish properly?" I pointedly ignore Mac's last remark, "I've got places to go, things to do."

            "What's your hurry?  Megan has to leave tomorrow, surely you can stay until then," MacLeod shrugs, "besides, and we haven't talked without Connor's interruptions for a long time.  Actually, I have a proposition for you."

            "What do you want now?" I snap, "I had the distinct feeling I've done my good deed for the Clan MacLeod this year."

            "I've decided to live here in Glencoe," Duncan begins, "I want you to have the barge.  Maurice is going to live in Normandy with his sister."

            Over the years, I've teased MacLeod about his barge on the Seine across from Notre Dame Cathedral.  I even demanded it once as payment for a favor.  Now I'm flabbergasted, it takes a lot to leave me speechless, but Mac has done it several times.  This is one of them.

            When it finally sinks in, I ask simply "why me?"

            "Damn, Adam you are the most suspicious man I've ever met," he gripes, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."

            "It comes from having a wooden horse dumped in your backyard overnight," I quip, "I learned my lesson way back when."

            "Look, you need a place you can call home," he urges me; "you can fix it up any way you want.  Hell, you can even do some traveling in it if that's what you want."

            Nodding, I accept. Truth be told, Duncan is the closest thing I have to family.  I don't remember mine very well any more, must be getting old.

            Megan breaks the awkward silence, "well, I've promised Duncan a hearty dinner tonight, but the cupboard is bare.  Shall we all go into the village and see what we can find?"

            "Sounds like a plan," Duncan agrees, helping her into her coat.  I fight another twinge of jealousy.  I slip into my long coat, sliding my sword into its sheath.  I just don't feel comfortable without it.

* * * * * * *

            The unknown Immortal watched as the threesome left the cottage for a trip into the village.  He kept well clear of them, keeping out of range of their buzz.  If he couldn't feel them, they couldn't feel him.  He used his time wisely, scouting out the best possible position for an ambush.  He knew MacLeod and Megan on sight, but wasn't sure who the second man was.  For the moment, he could care less.  He focused on taking MacLeod, and then have a bit of fun with the woman before taking her head.  The new guy looked too dorky and skinny to be much of a threat.  

* * * * * * *

            The three of us spend the day touring Glencoe and shopping for a traditional Scots meal.  Megan searches high and low for ingredients for venison stew and bannock bread.  MacLeod was in charge of spirits, finding just the right wine to compliment the food.  He also picked up whiskey.  I bought my usual brand of beer when Duncan refused, saying I should develop a taste for good Scotch while in Scotland.  We're having a great time, a nice lunch in a little café, good friends and conversation.  Duncan and Megan are becoming fast friends; Mac has this way with people, making them feel at ease, just like Connor.  People open up to him, hell…I've told him more than I ever intended…because he listens and makes a person feel that every word they utter is important.

            It is late afternoon when we arrive back at the homestead.  As we round the bend opposite the gravesite, I pocket a beer and grab a bottle of Glenlivet, getting out stretching my legs and visiting Connor one last time.   I owe it to him to say goodbye.

            "I hate to admit it old friend, but you were right," popping open my beer and toasting him, "Duncan and Megan are hitting it off.  I haven't seen him smile this much in a long time.  And I've never seen Meg flirt like this, not even when we were together."

            I take a long swallow of my beer, and then pour a little Scotch on the grave, smiling as it soaks into the ground.  "I know you're at peace now, holding your beloved Heather in your arms.  Duncan has her portrait hanging in his parlor, she's a beautiful woman.  You're a lucky man, but then again, you always were."

            I finish my beer, pour another swallow of Scotch on the grave and head back down the hill.  I want to shower and shave before dinner.

* * * * * * *

            Halfway down the slope, I feel a 'buzz,' a new one.  We have company.  Maybe it's because I've been around a whole lot longer than most Immortals, but I can sense a 'buzz' sooner than young ones can.  I make my way downhill in stealth mode, crouching behind any cover I can find, and then belly crawling towards the house staying just out of 'buzz' range.  The sight I'm faced with isn't good.   Megan is being held hostage, knife at her throat, by an unidentified young Immortal.  A gun in his other hand, he is waving it around, threatening MacLeod.  At first, MacLeod complies, laying his katana down and backing off.  Then his over active sense of integrity and honor kicks in, getting him shot in the chest for his troubles.  Mac barely slumps to the ground by the door before his assailant turns his attention back to Megan.  From the lecherous look on his face, he wants to have his way with her before he takes her head.  Megan plays the terrified victim, leading him on.  I realize she has something up her sleeve.

            She does, literally…well, not up her sleeve…but in the tall suede boots she's wearing.  He forces her to the ground, leans over her and finds a dirk firmly imbedded in his shoulder for his reward.  A swift kick to his groin only adds insult to injury.  That's got to hurt.  While he's whimpering on the ground, Megan retrieves Duncan's katana, prepared to use it if necessary.  If I were her opponent, I'd give it some serious thought before getting up.  Maybe his brains are situated in his groin, because he got up to face her.  This was going to be good, I settle back to watch, I'll have her back if and when the time comes.  Shrugging out of her coat, she smiles.  A smile that makes my blood run cold.  You don't want to mess with Megan when she gets that look on her face.  I should know I've seen it before.

            "I guess you have your heart set on a duel?" she's calm, giving him a chance to back down.

            "I'm not leaving without his head," the twit nods towards Duncan.

            "Then you'll have to deal with me first, lad," her Scots burr thicker than porridge when she's mad, warning him and taking a defensive stance.

            Circling each other, they size each other up.  Megan is wary, deflecting impatient blows to her blade from an impatient man.  It's obvious she's messed up his plans.  He's antsy and fighting some inner rage, trying to control it.  I'll give the twit points for that, at least he knows he has to control himself before controlling the duel.  He advances, looking for an opening.  Megan finds one first, whacking at his thighs with the flat of her blade, a good stinging slap that will raise welts.  At the moment, she's not out to kill him, she's still trying to talk him out of a serious duel.

            He's talking trash, trying to rile her, but she's not buying it.  She's keeping her head, letting him be the aggressor, parrying his thrusts and jabs while watching for any sign of weakness.  He is all flash, these young twits just think they can pick up a sword and start slashing away.  There's no style, no panache.  It makes me miss the old masters like Ramirez and Connor MacLeod.

            Finally, the twit breaks, thrusting and jabbing, Megan counters and parries every move he makes.  Connor's training shows, she moves gracefully, slowly, taking her time, feeling for his weaknesses.  She wings him, ruining his shirt and drawing more blood, moving past him; drawing him out into the open and away from MacLeod's body.  With more room to maneuver, she attacks, slowly but surely wearing the twit down, getting under his skin.  He's more and more agitated as she defends every blow he makes.

            "Had enough, laddie?" it's her turn to talk trash, "don't feel bad, I'm older than I look and I've been doing this much longer than you.  Why don't we end this now, walk away?  Who knows, if we ever meet again, you might have a better chance."

            He's gasping for breath, his hands on his knees.  He nods his agreement.

            I tense.  He's giving in too easily.  He's up to something.   

            They drop their swords; Megan moves in to help him.

            A blade flashes in his hand, Megan drops to her knees, her hands clinging to her abdomen.

            Before he can strike the killing blow, I circle round behind him, spin him around and have my trusty Roman gladiator's sword at his privates, "would you like to bet on how long you can stand after I castrate you?  You'd be surprised at the amount of blood you'll lose and how quickly you'll lose it."

            "Where the hell did you come from?  I thought you were gone," he screeches, too worried about his already aching privates to look me in the eye, "who the hell are you?"

            "Your worst nightmare," I coldly assure him, "you sure you want to fight?  I'm long overdue for a good duel.  I warn you, I fight dirty and I fight to win."

            "You're on," he grins back, all false bravado, "I'm going to enjoy this."

            "That's your first mistake." Flinging my coat off, I immediately go on the offensive.  Not giving the twit a chance to draw breath, I attack.  He defends, just barely getting his sword up to parry my first blows.  The surprised look on the twit's face tells me everything I need to know.  He isn't used to such intense attacks.

            I was raised on intense attacks, one thing I do remember about my earliest days is being handed a crude sword and being taught how to use it.  I used it all right…on other Immortals and mortals alike, especially when I rode with the Horsemen.  So many people killed, I've truly lost count.   I regret the loss of so many innocent lives, women and children, old and infirm.  I've lost many a night's sleep in nightmares where the faces of these innocents would pop up out of nowhere and remind me of just what kind of bastard I was and how far I've come.  

            I further honed my skills as a gladiator.  Talk about your brutal hand to hand combat, if I'd been the sword master on the movie 'Gladiator,' that Aussie pretty boy wouldn't have made it out alive.  The trouble is, to this day when I'm in the heat of a good sword fight, I sometimes forget myself and go back to those gory glory days in the Coliseum where you did everything you could to emerge victorious.  

            The twit isn't looking too healthy.  I've inflicted more wounds along his arms and legs; he's favoring his right side.  Yet he keeps on coming, I've got to admire his stamina.  He's managed to get in his share of damage to my body as well, his blade gouging my left side when I blow my timing countering one of his thrusts.  I can feel blood trickling down my side with every move I make.  It's time to end this.

            It's over quickly; I parry a jab to my chest, flinging his sword through midair in the process.  Before he realizes it, I gut him like a fish.  He drops to his knees, grabbing his intestines as they ooze out of his body.  

            "Who the hell are you?" he demands again, "at least tell me who you are before I die."

            _What the hell,_ I shrug, "_I am Methos_.  You forgot the main rule of the game…_in the end, there can be only one."_

            My blade tugs at my hands as I lop off his head, sending it bouncing across MacLeod's front yard.  Dropping to my knees, I wait for his Quickening to find me.

* * * * * * *

            It finds me and trashes me, the lightning starts at my toes and works its way up my body, intensifying…drawing the Quickening's charge through every ganglion and synapse, blasting my nervous system.  It's a nasty one, my feet leave the ground, and I'm spinning in a slow macabre circle, my screams drowned out by the booming thunder.  Just as suddenly as it hits me, it drops me like a wet rag.  Physically, it's a bitch, I feel like a tangled up puppet, being wounded doesn't help.  I've lost too much blood, I'll die soon.  

            Quickenings are the ultimate theft; the ultimate violation.  As if the loss of life isn't bad enough, the memories, the desires, the whole life of your opponent becomes a part of you, whether you want them or not.  Their life rushes in, images of their loved ones, their triumphs and defeats engulf you, leaving you a bit schizophrenic for awhile.  You have to be strong and accept it willingly; fighting it only makes it harder.

            One of my pet theories was that an Immortal's age at the time of death intensified the strength of the Quickening.  Another theory I pondered was that an Immortal's lifestyle, be it good or evil, contributed to it.  We almost lost Duncan and all that he stands for to a Dark Quickening once.  In any case, whoever takes my head had better be prepared for the worst.  I sometimes wish MacLeod had taken my head when I offered it to him.  Someday, I will offer it to him again; anyone who can take Kronos' quickening and remain sane afterwards has to be strong.

            It's time; I've lost too much blood.  I keel over on the rain soaked grass.  I can't feel my limbs and my vision is blurred.  I hate this part….the last thing I remember is the sound of rain pattering against my chest.     

* * * * * * *

            Hearing is the last thing to go and the first thing to come back.  Then the burning sensation grows in your chest as your lungs struggle for air.  It's like catching your breath after having the wind knocked out of you.  That first breath you take coming back from the dead is sweet.  You can feel every nook and cranny of your body being revitalized by the oxygen.

            I'm in bed.  MacLeod must have brought me in from the rain.  My mouth is dry, rising up on one elbow makes me dizzy, I ease back down.

            "You're awake," Megan's voice soft in my ear, "about bloody time.  You had me scared to death."

            "Nice to know you care," I quip, "how long have I been out?"

            "A little over a day," she murmurs, "MacLeod revived first, brought us both in out of the cold and then took care of the body."

            "Who was he?"

            "His name was Tyler Anderson," she informed me, "Mac contacted someone named Dawson who found out he was one of Kell's friends.  He was after Mac, it was a revenge thing.  You and I got in the way."

            "Bloody hell," I groan, "I hate being an innocent bystander."

            "Innocent? You?" she smiles, "that would be a stretch."

            "Ha ha, very funny," I grin in spite of myself, "could I have some water please?"

            "Sure," holding it up to my lips, letting me drink my fill, "when you feel up to it, there's some stew and bread waiting for you."

            "Sounds great," I manage to sit up, she props pillows behind me, "give me a few more minutes and I'll get up."

            "You may want your clothes," amused at my embarrassment, "oh come on, it's not like I haven't seen you naked.  Besides, someone had to clean you up."

            I have to admit, I'm glad it was Megan.  Our eyes hold, speaking volumes without words.

            "I thought I heard voices," MacLeod strolls in, "welcome back."

            "Yeah well, you younger ones recover easier than us really old guys," I joke, "will you please take her out of here so I can maintain some dignity?  It's all I've got in my old age."

* * * * * * *

            The expression 'weak as a newborn babe' best describes my physical condition at the moment.  According to Mac, my wound was worst than I first thought, a nasty deep gouge causing major blood loss.  I'm still dizzy; Mac gives me a hand dressing, pulling my shirt on over my head.  He insists on helping me downstairs and easing me down on the couch.  I watch from there as Megan and Mac work on dinner.

            "Can I get you anything?" Megan asks during a lull, "you still look a little peaked."

            "O J would be nice," I begin, "lots of it.  I need to get some fluids into my system.  It will help my recovery."

            She brings me a pitcher of juice and some biscuits.  My stomach growls at the sight, cracking us both up.  It feels good to laugh, laughter is always a good sign, and I know for sure I'm alive.  It's good to see her laugh, too.  I've missed it.

            Dinner was superb.  Megan made beef stew and bannock bread with hot sweet tea and scones for dessert.  I eat more than my share, drinking as much fluid as I can stand.  I'd do anything for a beer, but that will have to wait until I regain my strength.

We talk all night, trading stories about Connor, reliving fond memories.  I remember him as a loyal friend and comrade.  Mac remembers a mentor, friend and brother.  Megan remembers him as a lover and teacher.  What he taught us will stay with each one of us forever.  We'll carry his memories like a fire in our hearts; they will burn as long as we're alive.

            It occurs to me that our memories are Connor's true legacy.  Not only the ones we have of him, but the ones we're making now.  He brought three of his life's closest and dearest companions together, creating a family of sorts.  We're a motley crew, his clansman, his lover and a man whose very life is entrenched in myth and legend.  Megan and MacLeod are bonding, it's not as easy for me to let go of centuries-old habits and loosen up.  Sometimes, being a myth can be a royal pain.  

            "You're awfully quiet all of a sudden," Megan pulls a blanket around my shoulders, "you feeling better?"

            "Yeah, a good night's sleep and I'll be good as new," brushing wayward strands of hair from her face as she cuddles me, "how about you?"

            "Fine, but I hate leaving tomorrow to return to Dublin for my recording gig," she sighs, "I'm just getting to know Duncan and I have to admit, it's been like old times hanging around with you."

            "Does this mean I'm finally forgiven?"

            "I suppose," pecking my cheek.

            MacLeod clears his throat, "it's after midnight and Megan has an early flight.  Since you're still recovering, Adam, I'll take the couch."

            "No argument here, MacLeod," I stand.  The light headedness is gone; I climb the stairs under my own power.  Megan follows close behind, just in case.   Dog tired, I climb into bed, and sleep won't be too long in coming.

* * * * * * *

            Damn, can't a wounded man get a decent night's sleep?  Just about the time I drift into sleep, that weird double harmonic 'buzz' signaling a visit from a Connor driven Duncan slides into my subconscious and rousts me from dreamland.  I'm too weak and tired to find my sword, let alone use it.  So I sit up in bed and wait for the door to open.  Why Immortals even try to sneak into another Immortal's bedroom is beyond me.  Yet here was MacLeod, two for one, gently easing the door open.

            "You awake?" Connor's voice mumbles from Duncan's throat.

            "Well, duh," shaking my head, "what brings you here?  You promised you wouldn't drag Duncan's body around on your nocturnal wanderings."

            "Heh, heh, heh.  I swear, this is the last time," he chuckles, "thanks for finding Megan.  I knew she would hit it off with Duncan."

            "You aren't still trying to fix Megan up are you?" I point out, "now that Duncan knows Kate is alive, I doubt he'll jeopardize that relationship."

            "You're still available," he counters.

            "You'd better be kidding," I sneer, "we're like oil and water.  We may come together for awhile, but we always separate eventually."

            "Time will tell, _Methos," he shrugs, "you taught me that."_

            "Que sera, sera," I quote, "what will be, will be.  By the way, you think you're pretty smart, don't you?"

            "Excuse me?  What're you going on about?"

            "Part of your legacy, the part that isn't written down anywhere was to bring us all together to create a family."

            He smiles, a smile that's part Connor, part Duncan, but admits nothing.  

            "Pretty raggedy bunch if you ask me," I quip.

            "Bloody hell, when are you going to lighten up?" he sighs, "you have to trust someone with your secrets.  Duncan already knows some of them and Megan suspects things."

            "Old habits die hard," I grumble, staring at him from under hooded eyes, "you can't teach an old---"

            "Stop with the clichés.  Deep down in your heart, you know you can trust both of them.  Let go of your paranoia and relax.  You might like it."

            There is no point arguing with him, I shrug, "what the hell, it might be good for me to have someone I can count on instead of relying solely on my own instincts.  I might live longer."

            He chuckles again, clasping my shoulder, "you might at that, gravedigger.  Thanks again, old friend.  This time I'm gone for good.  Duncan has his own life to live."

            Nodding, I grin as he leaves, footsteps fading as he goes downstairs.  Running fingers through my hair, I lie back down and relax so sleep can claim me.  One final thought crosses my mind as I drift off.  Maybe all this hasn't come to a bad end.  Maybe this is a new beginning, for all of us, especially yours truly.  

The End.

            _Thanks readers, for coming along for the ride.  I hope you liked my little saga and can't wait to hear from you.  Peace.  Avatar5005        _


End file.
